


a common bound

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [13]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Cult of Kate, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Polyamory, Relationship Discussions, Rescue, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: “I’m but a mere human,” he says, theatrically collapsing into a very plush chair nearby. “I cannot handle that amount of excitement, Yennefer.”She stops rearranging things near the hearth to give him an unconvinced look. “You probably killed that guard. And I have it on good authority that you’ve threatenedmore than one Witcherwith that dagger you’re always carrying.”Jaskier grins. Yennefer huffs and rolls her eyes.Jaskier has always followed his gut feelings, to great success; this one leads him to Yennefer in trouble.
Series: fire & powder [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 94
Kudos: 749
Collections: Ashes' Library, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here begins the plot.
> 
> no, seriously, all of the plot for this series hinges on this fic. what a fuckin concept. 
> 
> thanks again to kate (crateofkate literally everywhere) for being a horrible enabler and also a cheerleader and idea dispenser when my brain refused to do anything but make fart noises at me. she's a terror and a delight and i love her so fucking much. 
> 
> and obviously, thanks to hsu who was the one to suggest adding yen to me, because if they hadn't done so none of the batshit conversation with kate would have happened (probably).
> 
> edit 1/18/2021: i'm going through and editing a bunch of character descriptions to make some things more obvious - specifically, POC vs. white characters.

Jaskier is held up for a handful of days in Beauclair, but eventually, his Witchers must get back to the Path and he must continue on to greener pastures.

Geralt. He’s headed toward Geralt.

At least, in theory – he doesn’t actually know where Geralt is, right now. But heading north is always a good bet; Geralt does tend to frequent Redania and Temeria, after all. So Jaskier picks a road going approximately northwest, and sets on his way, figuring he’ll either run into Geralt or hear rumor of his Witcher’s whereabouts somewhere along the way.

He’s right, but in a vastly different way than he could have ever expected.

* * *

The road to Kagen, mostly following the Newi river, is lush green and very pretty but also rather lonely. This late in the summer there’s not much trade travel going on along this road, so Jaskier is alone, and hasn’t seen another soul since he took off from the very tiny village he’d spent the night in.

With no traders likely to be trundling along though, there’s less threat of bandits, as well. Jaskier feels rather comfortable. Even with the midday sun beating down on his back and the weight of his few belongings over his shoulders, he’s in a wonderful mood. So, as is his usual wont, audience or no – he swings his lute forward and starts to play.

Out here, with nothing but trees and grasslands for miles, _leagues,_ his voice carries and never echoes back at him. It’s almost odd, how easy it is for sound to just…disappear into the air, here, but he’s very used to the strangeness of it. After so many years travelling the Continent, he has to be.

But then there’s a different tingle to his skin; not the subconscious instinct that he may be in danger, something he’s old hat at ignoring entirely. This – he _knows_ this sensation, the strange prickle that raises goosebumps on his skin. Magic.

The portal opens up about fifteen paces in front of him, and he stops. A woman strides through it; she’s dressed in a white and gold dress, long black hair pulled up, and if looks could kill, he’d be a very, very dead bard.

“You’re Geralt’s bard, yes?” she asks as she starts marching toward him, portal still swirling behind her, and Jaskier blinks.

“I – yes,” he answers, a little belatedly, as she finally reaches him. Her eyes are violet, properly _violet_ , standing out against her pale brown skin, and she’s – beautiful. The most beautiful woman Jaskier has ever seen. And there’s an energy coming off of her like Jaskier’s never felt before, not even from any of the other mages he’s met in his life. She’s _terrifying._

“Good. I need you.”

Without further preamble, she grabs his arm and yanks him back through the portal with her.

Jaskier stumbles and crashes to his knees in – a bedroom, he’s in a bedroom. There’s a large four-poster bed with beautiful drapes, and a lot of candles, and something that looks just entirely too much like a summoning circle for comfort, but none of that is important.

Because laying on the beautifully draped, large bed, is Geralt.

And he looks dead.

“What the fuck – ”

“No time for questions, bard,” the mage who brought him here barks. “Drop your things, they’ll be fine – get on the bed.”

“I’m sorry, I really do need at least a few answers here – ”

“Geralt is dying, and I need your help. Do you want him to live?”

“What – I – yes, obviously!”

“That’s all you need to know right now. _On the bed._ ”

Jaskier sheds his packs and his lute and scrambles toward the bed, tripping over his own feet to land on it next to Geralt. The mage does – something, he can’t really see, with a bundle of herbs, and then she lights them on fire and walks over.

“Take his hand.”

Jaskier does as he’s told. Geralt is ice-cold, and Jaskier is very sure his heart rate is much too high to be safe right now.

The mage leans down until they’re eye-to-eye, and Jaskier is…almost calmed, by the look in her eyes. Not quite, but there’s something about her gaze that settles him – enough to listen to what she’s saying, at least. “I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she says. “And I’ll answer your questions later. But I need you to find him.”

“What?”

Yennefer blows the smoke into his face, and he coughs. “You’ll see. Find him.”

Jaskier wants to ask again, but sudden darkness closes in on him, and the words are lost to it.

* * *

He’s alone.

Or – no, that’s not right. He’s not alone. There are so _many_ people here, he can _feel_ them, but he can’t see them. Where are they? Everything is covered in a mist, nothing in sight except grey, grey, grey. He can feel people, but he can’t see any of them.

Where are they?

Where is _he_?

He looks at his hands and finds there’s – something wrong. He looks away, and looks back, and they’re right again. But then they’re not – something is wrong again. How many fingers does he have? He can’t remember.

Where are all of the people? He knows they’re here. Why can’t he see them?

“Hello?” he asks.

There’s a reply, but he doesn’t understand it. It’s fuzzy, and muffled, and…. He just can’t understand it.

But then, there’s another sound, louder and clearer and – also words. A voice and words, ones he can understand, now.

_Find Geralt._

Yes, he should find Geralt. Is Geralt here, too? How did Geralt end up in a place like this?

How did _Jaskier_ end up in a place like this?

The voice repeats itself. _Find Geralt._

Right. Yes. He needs to find Geralt. Perhaps if he walks around in this terrible fog, he’ll find Geralt – or, someone, at least. He hopes he can find someone.

It feels as if he walks for days, but that can’t be right.

How long has he been here? Why hasn’t he seen anyone, when he can feel them around him like a physical presence?

He shakes his head.

Find Geralt. Right.

Maybe if he shouts.

“Geralt!”

Nothing.

“Geralt! Geralt, are you here?”

Nothing.

Nothing, but there’s a flash in the corner of his eye. He whirls around and there’s still nothing, but another flash. And another. He spins again and sees a girl. A girl?

“Who are you?”

She stops. Her form doesn’t solidify, as if she’s one with the mist; her edges blur, her arms and legs flash in and out of view. Her hair is a mess of curls, longer on one side than the other and dark against her pale, ashen skin, and her eyes are wide. Frightened. She’s frightened.

What could she be afraid of?

There’s nothing here.

“Who are you?” Jaskier asks again.

She opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She closes her mouth and shakes her head.

“You can’t say?”

She shakes her head again. Her gaze darts around, as if she’s expecting to be attacked, like there will be something hiding in the mist to grab her.

“You don’t _know_?”

She nods. Then opens her mouth, closes it again, and shakes her head.

“Have you seen Geralt?”

It’s a stupid question. This woman – how would she know who Geralt _is_? But he has no other options. He has to find Geralt, and instead, he’s found her. The longer she stands in one place, the more solid she seems, but her edges are still blurring with the mist. There’s something about her, though – does _he_ know _her_?

How could he?

But she looks so familiar.

“I’m looking for Geralt.”

Her eyes dart back to him and she no longer looks afraid, but now she’s – angry? Sad? Both, she’s angry and sad, but why?

“Geralt,” she says, and Jaskier’s heart leaps.

“Yes,” he nods and steps closer. She takes a step back and begins to lose her form again. “Geralt. I need to find Geralt.” This girl looks so _familiar_ , but he can’t know her; he’s sure he’s never seen her before in his life.

He never forgets a face.

Maybe it’s not her face he knows?

“I need to find Geralt,” he repeats, and she opens her mouth.

“Geralt,” she repeats, and Jaskier nods. “The girl in the woods.”

“What girl in the woods? You?”

She shakes her head. “The girl in the woods…. Geralt.”

She looks around, frantic, and screams, the sound shrill and warped. She collapses into the mist.

When Jaskier rushes forward, she’s gone. No flashes, no color.

Grey mist, everywhere he turns.

He’s shaking. His hands still aren’t right.

“Geralt!”

He walks on.

There are more flashes. Colors, light; when he turns, he never finds anyone there. Not Geralt, not the odd girl. He keeps moving.

Find Geralt. Find Geralt. Find Geralt. Like a mantra, a chant, a refrain.

He has to find Geralt.

Moments – hours – days pass. He doesn’t know anything but mist. Until, suddenly, it’s not just mist anymore.

Trees? He can see trees. He picks up into a run; the closer he gets to the trees, the less of the mist there is.

The less _people_ there is.

Where are the people going?

…were there people here to begin with?

He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

“Geralt!” he shouts. “Geralt! Geralt!”

There’s a rustle. He stops, just at the tree line, and listens. Leaves rustling, twigs cracking. Footsteps.

“Geralt?”

A flash of white. Jaskier sees it, deep into the trees, moving away from him.

“Geralt!”

He runs.

He runs, and runs, and runs. There’s always that flash of white, just out of his reach, barely within his sight. It’s Geralt, he knows it is. He can _feel_ it, like he could feel the people from before. He’s following Geralt.

But where is Geralt going?

“Geralt!”

The trees end. There’s no more mist, but there’s no more trees. A meadow? But no – when he tries to look, everything goes fuzzy. He can’t focus on the place.

He can only focus on Geralt, ahead of him.

“Geralt!”

Geralt turns. Jaskier runs.

The world – this world – is fuzzy, incomplete, _wrong._ Wrong, so wrong. But Geralt is clear, and whole, and right. Jaskier reaches out and Geralt reaches out, too. They touch.

Geralt screams.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t know where he is. There’s very pretty drapes hanging above him, but he’s never seen them before. He thinks.

“Wha….”

He sits up and sees…Yennefer, her name is Yennefer, he remembers. She’s standing at the end of the bed, staring at Geralt. Everything comes back to him in a blinding rush: the road to Kagen; the portal; Geralt, lying cold and still like the dead; Yennefer, a bundle of burning herbs, and the darkness-inducing smoke. _Find Geralt._ It had been her voice in that – that place, whatever it was. _Wherever_ it was.

Jaskier turns and finds Geralt hasn’t moved.

But his hand is warm.

“He’ll be fine,” Yennefer says, and she sounds exhausted. Jaskier looks back to her and realizes she _looks_ it, too.

“I found him,” Jaskier murmurs. He knows what has happened – sort of, kind of – but everything is still muddled. Like _he’s_ filled with that mist. “Where _were_ we?”

Yennefer frowns. “It’s…a purgatory, of sorts,” she answers. “It’s where the dead that aren’t dead go.”

“The dead that aren’t dead?”

“When the body lives but the mind does not. Or vice versa. A deathless sleep.”

Jaskier is still confused. He doesn’t bother asking for further clarification about it, though; he has other, more important questions.

“What _happened_?”

Yennefer finally looks away from Geralt. “He found a djinn.”

Jaskier blinks at her. “A…djinn? Like – a _genie_? Bad tempers and banned magics, wishes-gone-bad, that kind of genie?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Yes. He wished for sleep.”

“Sleep.” Jaskier glances back to Geralt. He _is_ prone to insomnia, Jaskier knows that; but he’s not generally prone to the kind of insanity that makes one search for a _djinn_. How long had he been sleepless? Meditating helps, but even Witchers need sleep. Jaskier moves his hand from Geralt’s to his forehead, smoothing sweaty hair back from the pallid skin. It also serves to assure him that Geralt has returned to something resembling normal; his forehead is warm, like his hand, but not feverish – at least, not feverish for a Witcher. Were he a normal man, Jaskier might be concerned at the warmth he gives off.

But he’s getting sidetracked.

“I assume that wish backfired.”

Yennefer nods. “They usually do.”

“But if he wished for sleep, how did he get here?”

Yennefer waves a hand to interrupt him. “I assume it has to do with his second wish.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t know.” Yennefer goes over to a vanity on the other side of the room from the bed. She rearranges a few things before speaking again. “He’s made two. I know the first, because Chireadan told me when they arrived. But I don’t know the second. Not that it matters, really.”

“Chir – who is Chireadan? How do you know he’s only made two?”

Yennefer looks back to him. “Chireadan is an elf healer from nearby,” she says, and then gestures at Geralt. “The wishes – his right arm.”

Jaskier leans over to look. On the inside of Geralt’s wrist, there are two neat cuts. “Huh.”

“He’ll live, but it will be a while before he wakes,” Yennefer continues. She turns away and does something complicated with her hands that Jaskier can only just see; when she turns back once more, she’s holding a pile of folded clothes. “ _You_ need to get cleaned up. You smell of panic.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows climb to his hairline. “I – what?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes again and crosses the room in several large strides. She thrusts the pile of clothes at Jaskier and he automatically reaches up to take them. “Go take a bath,” she orders. She points at a door that Jaskier assumes leads to somewhere he can do that. “And then take a walk. It’ll be half an hour – at _least_ – before he wakes; the last thing he needs is to wake up to you reeking like fear and looking sickly.”

“I – ”

Yennefer gives him a very pointed look, and he gulps.

“One more question,” he murmurs timidly.

She stares him down for a moment, but finally nods.

“How did you – you know me. You knew who I was when you found me. How?”

Yennefer hums and looks over his shoulder to Geralt. “What I had to do – it requires a…tie, of sorts. Something – some _one_ , preferably – to tether the sleeping person to this reality, to find them. That place shouldn’t be somewhere the properly living can go, even in sleep. But when I tried to be the tie, to open the door and follow him myself, I couldn’t find him. He could tell I was looking and wouldn’t let me see him. So I looked into his mind, and I found you. _You_ are plastered into every corner of his consciousness, bard. And most of the subconscious, too.”

“So you came and found me.” Jaskier doesn’t bother asking how, because one, magic, and two, he doesn’t actually want to know; just the possibilities of how are making his skin crawl, and he’s sure the actual answer is worse. “I was the tie?”

Yennefer nods. “You were the tie and you were the search party. All I had to do, with you here, was open the door and keep it open so both of you could get back.”

“Looks like it was a heavy door,” Jaskier says, tone a little off for a joke. Despite that, he can’t help but add a smirk. Yennefer blinks at him, then quirks a single perfect eyebrow.

“Bath,” she reminds, gesturing to the door. “Go.”

Jaskier turns to look at Geralt one more time. He doesn’t want to leave the Witcher’s side, but Yennefer’s right; if the first thing Geralt can pick up on when he wakes is Jaskier’s fear, it won’t do him any favors. And, he figures, there’s no real reason he can’t trust Yennefer – she did just save Geralt’s life. Better yet, she had Jaskier unconscious and did nothing untoward. _And_ saved Geralt.

He nods and stands, skirting carefully around the sorceress. Tucking the new clothes under his arm, he bends to snatch his lute and his pack on the way out; it would be rude to leave a mess, after all.

* * *

Once he’s bathed and dressed, he wanders out of the washroom and down some stairs. He finds himself in a kitchen.

There’s a very naked man passed out, lying on the floor in front of the kitchen hearth. Jaskier stares at him for a moment and decides that, really, he doesn’t need to know. And also, he doesn’t want to. He leaves the man to his nap and wanders outside.

Even with the mosquitoes he encounters, it’s a very nice day in…wherever this is. That’s a good question, actually – where _is_ he right now?

He looks around and finds nothing to give him any clues. After a moment, he shrugs to himself and keeps walking. He can ask Yennefer or Geralt later.

Or, he thinks, as he sees a distant figure pacing one end of the estate, he can ask _them_.

When he draws closer, he can see that the figure is an elf. Probably Chireadan, then.

“Hello,” he calls.

Chireadan startles.

“Who are _you_?” he asks.

“Jaskier.” He reaches where the elf is standing and looks over him. He looks more exhausted than Yennefer did. He’s also wearing armor, which Jaskier thinks is a little odd for a healer, but he supposes he’s seen weirder. “Or Dandelion. Bard and occasional professor at Oxenfurt Academy.” He sticks out a hand. “I assume you’re Chireadan?”

“I am.” The elf just stares down at his hand as if it’s some kind of particularly puzzling plant, so Jaskier drops it back to his side. “Is the Witcher alright?”

Jaskier nods. “Should be. I was ordered to take a bath and a walk; I’ve taken the bath. Want to join me on the walk? You look like you could use the fresh air.”

“Fresh ai – we’re outside.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yes, that – that was a joke.”

“Ah.”

“Come on.” Jaskier gestures toward the rolling expanse of grass fields surrounding them, and the road leading out toward – well, probably the town, whatever town that is. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Rinde.”

Jaskier thinks for a moment. Rinde, that’s…ah, right, the border of Redania and Temeria. Would explain the mosquitoes, then, the Pontar is somewhere nearby.

“So, Chireadan,” Jaskier starts as they begin to walk. “You’re a healer, right?”

“I am.”

“Did you attend Oxenfurt?”

Chireadan looks at him sideways, as if assessing him for something, and Jaskier lets him. Finally, the elf seems content with what he finds, and answers, “For a short time.”

“Hm. Well, that’s, uh,” Jaskier chuckles, “forgive me, but – _a short time_ , coming from an elf, that could mean anything from a few months to my entire thirty-some-odd years.”

Chireadan smiles just a little at that. “Two years,” he clarifies. “I’m young for an elf.”

“That is also rather vague, my friend.” Jaskier grins. “Tell me about your time at the Academy.”

* * *

He and Chireadan spend a good while walking and chatting. The elf is quiet, and awkward, but funny when he wants to be. Jaskier likes him.

It isn’t until they circle around, headed back toward the mansion – which belongs to the mayor of Rinde, Jaskier has discovered, and that was likely the naked man sleeping in the kitchen – that something seems off.

And then suddenly, it’s not just _off_. Something is clearly, _deeply_ wrong; there’s a deafening, inhuman wail, and the mansion begins to collapse. Jaskier spares a look toward Chireadan, who is standing shell-shocked beside him, mouth agape, before he takes off. He circles around the mansion just in time to see the top corner cave into itself.

The bedroom where he left Geralt and Yennefer.

The mayor runs out of the house screeching, still naked. Jaskier sidesteps when the man tries to lurch into his arms; he hits the dirt with a dull _thud_ and a pained whimper. He pays none of that any mind, staring in abject horror at the sight of the mansion’s now-crumbled roof, the walls still heaving with the destruction.

Geralt and Yennefer were – he can’t think it. He _can’t_. Geralt has to be fine. He’s a _Witcher,_ for fucks’ sake – and Yennefer, she’s a sorceress. A mage and a Witcher have to be able to survive something like a – a catastrophic collapse. Rubble – _bricks_ – crashing down….

Jaskier’s heart sinks to his feet, and his body goes with it. Pain radiates up his spine when his knees hit the ground, but he hardly registers it. He’s – crying. Yeah, he’s crying.

“ _Geralt_ ,” he whispers. In his mind’s eye, he sees Geralt’s smile, his eyes sparkling gold, lit by the hearth at Kaer Morhen. Those eyes – the ones that match Eskel’s, and Lambert’s, and Vesemir’s. Match _ed._ Past tense.

“What am I supposed to do now, hm? It wasn’t supposed to go this way….”

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, vision blurred by tears, staring at the crumbled corner of the mansion. Eventually, the destruction stops. The walls cease shuddering, and the last bricks fall, and the remainder of the mansion that survived – most of it, except the part that Jaskier _really needs to have survived_ – settles. Everything is a little crooked, but it’s still.

He’s knocked out of his reverie by Chireadan. The elf skids around the corner and stumbles nearly on top of Jaskier, gasping, “They’re alive, they’re alive!”

“They’re – ”

Reality crashes into Jaskier.

“Bollocks.”

He stands, and Chireadan shoves him around the corner. Jaskier can hear – is that…?

There’s a window. The glass is mostly intact, but not completely, and the drapes are done for. Through the decorative pattern and cracks, he can see Yennefer.

And Geralt, lying on the floor below her.

“Oh.” Jaskier feels a hysterical chuckle bubbling up in this throat. “They’re alive. They’re – really alive, whoo! I mean – ”

Chireadan makes an embarrassed noise. “Come on.” He tugs at Jaskier’s arm.

Jaskier doesn’t budge. “No,” he turns and grins at the elf. “I think I’ll stay right here.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Geralt stumbles out of the mansion sans Yennefer.

Jaskier laughs at the state of him; hair a wreck, clothes misplaced, eyes squinted against the sunlight. He’s seen Geralt look like this before, plenty of times. Usually it’s Jaskier or Eskel who has ridden him into such a state, but, well – Jaskier’s always known about Geralt’s _thing_ for sorceresses.

And besides, it’s always fun to watch.

 _Not_ that that gets Geralt off the hook for pulling a stunt like finding a djinn to wish away insomnia. Oh, no, his Witcher will still be getting an earful about that.

But maybe later, when he doesn’t look so absolutely flattened.

“Jaskier?”

“Geralt.” Jaskier reaches out and wraps an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. A testament to how rattled the Witcher is, he lists into the contact in full view of Chireadan and the still-flabbergasted (and naked) mayor. He notes that there’s a third little cut alongside the other two on Geralt’s arm. Interesting. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a building fell down on top of me.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Funny thing, it did. Alright, where is Roach?”

Chireadan pipes up. “I had her stabled. Not far.”

Geralt glares at the elf. “My things – ”

“Are safe,” the elf promises. “I ensured it personally, Witcher.”

Geralt squints at him. Jaskier nudges him, not-so-gently. “He’s trustworthy, Geralt,” he says. “After all, he brought you here.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and Geralt seems to deflate. “Alright.”

“Good. Chireadan, if you would?” Jaskier gestures widely.

The mayor opens his mouth and makes a questioning noise, but Chireadan turns with a scowl and thumps him on the head without a word. He falls over unconscious.

Jaskier laughs all the way to the stable.

* * *

A day later, Jaskier spends an hour lecturing Geralt about making poor choices.

Geralt lets him finish, grunts, and drags him bodily back into the bed they’ve been sharing at some nameless inn.

Jaskier only lets him get away with it because of the absolutely _wrecked_ way Geralt mutters, “You smell like Lambert,” before he proceeds to make Jaskier forget his own godsdamned name.

After that, and then a few months travelling with Geralt again on and off, Jaskier essentially forgets about the whole thing.


	2. chapter 2

It’s not every day that a festival and an execution are to be held at once. After parting ways with Geralt, though, Jaskier hears about just that going on in a relatively tiny town between Maribor and Dorian. His gut says he should be there.

His gut is yet to lead him wrong. Lead him into danger, yes, but so far it’s never been the _wrong_ danger. So he goes.

Burdorff is small, and exactly identical to every other small town on the Continent that Jaskier has ever seen; boring brick and packed dirt roads and the smell of woodsmoke, filled with poor farmers and merchants with dead eyes. Which is why it’s quite odd that an execution stirring enough to have reached Maribor would be happening _here_ , and even stranger that it would be happening on the day of Saovine.

And then he catches wind of what’s going on. _A rogue sorceress_ is the whisper he hears; the other whispers aren’t nearly so kind. _Dirty witch, probably not even human._

Bit of an odd place for Eternal Fire sentiments to arise, but he supposes that cults are known to prey on the weak-minded, and it’s clear that Burdorff is full of them. He scowls and, instead of settling in to possibly perform before the, uh, _events_ , sets off to see if he can find where they’re keeping this mage.

He doesn’t expect to know her. He definitely doesn’t expect _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ to have been caught in a place like _Burdorff._ Gods, he hadn’t even known the name of the place until he arrived – what on earth could Yennefer be doing here, of all places? Better yet, what happened that these chucklefucks managed to catch her?

Seriously, there’s only _one guard_ where they’re holding her. And none of the soldiers or mercenaries he’s seen today look like they could take so much as the average stomach flu in a fight, much less a very powerful mage.

That single guard is easy to knock out. At the sound of him hitting the ground, Yennefer stands and whips around to see what’s happening; upon spotting Jaskier, she just tenses further.

“ _What_ ,” she hisses.

Jaskier laughs incredulously. “I could ask you the same question,” he says. “But there’s better things to be doing than chatting, currently.” He bends to rifle through the unconscious guard’s pockets and finds a handful of keys.

“What are you doing?” Yennefer asks, voice still a dangerous hiss, and Jaskier looks away from the keys in his hand to give her a disbelieving look.

“Ensuring your death isn’t the main event of the night? What does it _look_ like I’m doing.”

He goes back to the keys. The first few he tries don’t even fit in the cell lock; the next three fit but don’t unlock it. Seventh time is the charm, he guesses. The guard groans at his feet, rolling onto his back, and Jaskier delivers a swift kick to his head to put him out again. Might also kill him, but that’s not Jaskier’s concern. No time to deal with that.

“Come on,” he says, when Yennefer stays standing in the center of the cell staring at him distrustfully.

“Your attempt won’t be _worth_ anything, bard,” she snaps, yanking her wrists up to face-level. “ _Fucking_ dimeritium.”

Jaskier blinks at the blueish metal around her wrists and the black-purple veins standing out in her arms. “That it is,” he mutters. “Explains some things. Also gives me yet more questions.”

Yennefer makes a short, sharp noise, something that sounds like a cross between derisive and hopeless. It’s an odd sound, to say the least, especially coming from her. “Even if you can get me out of here unnoticed – not likely – I’m worthless with these on.”

Jaskier nods. “True, but.” He steps closer. “Idiots didn’t take the pins out of your hair.”

Yennefer blinks at him. “They…didn’t, no.”

“Which means I can pick those cuffs. Don’t bite me for touching you.”

Yennefer snorts. “You’re on thin ice.”

“Always am, darling.” Jaskier reaches up and slides his fingers into the complicated updo her hair is still mostly in. He finds the pins almost immediately. Pulling them out does something awful to the hairstyle, but much like the unconscious and possibly concussed (or dead) guard, that’s not his problem at the moment.

“Don’t call me darling.”

Jaskier grins. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re right.” The lock on the cuff clicks quietly as it unlatches, and the cuff falls to the ground. Yennefer kicks the offending metal away and holds up her other wrist demandingly. “You’re absolutely terrifying. Darling.”

“Fuck you, bard.”

Jaskier just chuckles and finishes picking the other cuff. “Better?” he asks.

Yennefer squints at him and rubs at her wrists. “Yes.”

“Well, then, I supposed we should be going now, since I’m sure at some point someone will be coming to get you. You are fated to die, after all.”

“I should leave you here,” Yennefer snarks. “I’m sure they’d accept hanging you in my stead.”

Jaskier is pretty sure that threat is about half serious. But that still means it’s half _not_ serious, so he figures he’s safe to push his luck.

He’s done stupider.

He thinks.

“Are you really doing to treat your kind and benevolent savior that way?” he asks, with a hand over his heart and a dramatic gasp. “After I went to all the trouble.”

“Not sure I’d use _benevolent_ ,” Yennefer mutters, glancing over at the guard’s prone body. Jaskier is almost positive that she’s trying not to smile, and he’ll take it as a win. “Fuck, come on. Geralt would kill me if he found out I left you here.”

A portal opens with a _whoosh_ and the tingle of magic. Yennefer snatches his wrist and practically throws him through it, cutting off his, “Wait, have you seen Geralt late – ”

* * *

There are three more portals before Yennefer finally allows Jaskier to catch his footing, and a fourth before she stops.

Jaskier finds himself in a quaint little cottage, sunlight streaming in through the windows where very pretty purple curtains are pulled back. Yennefer goes immediately to the hearth to light a fire, and just the way she moves around the space tells him that she’s very familiar with it. Her cottage, then, or at least one she’s spent a fair amount of time in.

“Sit down, you look like you’re about to puke,” Yennefer says. There is absolutely no concern in her voice and Jaskier snorts.

“I’m but a mere human,” he says, theatrically collapsing into a very plush chair nearby. “I cannot handle that amount of excitement, Yennefer.”

She stops rearranging things near the hearth to give him an unconvinced look. “You probably killed that guard. And I have it on good authority that you’ve threatened _more than one Witcher_ with that dagger you’re always carrying.”

Jaskier grins. Yennefer huffs and rolls her eyes.

For a long moment, silence reigns. And, for once in his life, Jaskier is content to let it; he jests about excitement, but that was probably the least fraught rescue he’s ever been a part of. It’s rather nice to sit and revel in the accomplishment, since there’s a distinct lack of left-over panic or adrenaline lacing his system. Although, considering how easy that rescue was _does_ raise questions.

“I was going to ask – ” he starts, at the exact same time that Yennefer turns to him and murmurs, “I assumed you hated me.”

His entire thought process screeches to a halt.

Yennefer blinks. “What were you going to ask?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “It not longer matters,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry, you assumed _what_?”

Yennefer gives him an unreadable look before turning and stepping away. Jaskier sits up and cranes his head around and sees she’s in a sort of kitchen area. He can’t see what she’s doing at first, but then she turns back to face him and she’s holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“You did save me, after all.” She hands him an overfull glass on her return.

He takes it but doesn’t drink, glance flickering between it and her once. She huffs and rolls her eyes before taking it back and taking a healthy swig of it herself. There’s a long pause where she keeps the glass and glares at him pointedly, then hands it back.

He smirks. “The demonstration proves less than your willingness to do it, darling.” He takes a drink. It’s very good wine, though he wouldn’t expect anything else from her.

Yennefer scowls. “Insolent,” she mutters, and takes her own glass of wine with her to a rickety rocking chair across from him. He takes a moment to be stunned about how regal she looks even now, hair an absolute disaster and dress dirty in a wooden rocker that creaks when she breathes.

“Are you going to answer my question?” Jaskier only asks when she’s settled and has taken a healthy drink of her own wine.

Her scowl deepens. “I meant exactly what I said, bard,” she says. “I assumed you hated me.”

Jaskier laughs. “ _Why_?”

She gives him a disbelieving look. “I nearly killed Geralt.”

“Geralt nearly kills himself once a week.” Jaskier shrugs and takes a drink.

Yennefer’s scowl morphs into more of a confused frown. Jaskier hides his widening smirk in another drink. “How much do you actually know about what happened in Rinde?”

Jaskier shrugs again. “Most it, I suppose.”

She gestures for him to continue. After another drink, he does.

“Geralt found a djinn and wished for sleep. He told me that he doesn’t remember anything between that and waking up in that bed – at least, nothing _real._ ” Jaskier shivers a little as he recalls the grotesque things Geralt had seen in that purgatory, but pushes it from his mind. He takes another drink, then sets the glass on the floor to lean forward and fix his gaze on Yennefer.

She looks almost startled at the scrutiny, but aside from a mild widening of her eyes, doesn’t move.

“He told me about waking up to you trying to trap the djinn,” he says, clearly. “So yes, I do know about that.”

If Yennefer were a lesser woman, Jaskier thinks she would have flinched. But she’s not, and she doesn’t. Instead, she downs the rest of her glass of wine and refills it.

“Did he tell you about his third wish?” she asks, quietly.

Jaskier snorts. “Did he tell _you_?”

She rolls her eyes. “No,” she answers, sounding frustrated. “But I could _feel_ it.”

“Feel it?”

“It tied us together somehow,” she says, and there’s something in her tone that Jaskier can’t quite place.

It sounds like insecurity.

But this is _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ he’s talking to. He’s not had much personal experience, aside from Rinde, but he has done his research on her. She’s terrifyingly powerful and rogue, not beholden to the Brotherhood or their machinations, known for and prone to _kill first, ask questions later._

So surely, it can’t be insecurity in her voice, but Jaskier files the idea away, nonetheless.

“Tied you together,” Jaskier repeats. “Alright.”

Yennefer’s brows raise. “Yes,” she says, and there’s – she’s making a point of some kind, Jaskier can tell.

He just doesn’t know what point it is.

Which is disappointing; he’s usually so good at reading people, even those who have a vested interest in remaining mysterious (see: Geralt). He can’t be sure if it’s his failing or something about _her,_ though, so he doesn’t let himself mope. Instead, he just raises his eyebrows back and waits.

If he wins a staring contest with a sorceress, he’ll never let his Wolves hear the end of it.

And it appears they’ll be hearing the story for many winters to come, because –

“For fucks’ _sake_ ,” Yennefer hisses. She downs her wine all at once again and stands. “You _are_ in love with the buffoon, are you not?”

Jaskier blinks up at her. She’s sort of…looming, now, stood a scant space away from his knees and staring down at him with an unfamiliar fire in her violet eyes. He thinks maybe he should be afraid – and he is, really – but he also can’t shake the little voice at the back of his head whispering _insecure._

He supposes everyone has their weaknesses.

“I am,” he agrees. “What of it?”

“You’re in love with him,” Yennefer repeats, slowly, “and from what I’ve seen in his _startlingly_ empty head, he’s just as in love with you. He tied himself to _me._ ”

Ah. Jaskier thinks he’s staring to see where this is going, now. “I think you’ve been overlooking something, darling,” he says. He’s very carefully keeping eye contact while he speaks; he can’t be sure she understands what he’s doing, but he’ll spell it out, if he has to. “Have you really just seen that he’s in love with _me_?”

Yennefer blinks and glances away. “I wasn’t looking.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. Spelling it out, then. “Then look now.”

Her gaze returns to him, sharp and angry, but he doesn’t flinch. (It’s a near thing, but he’ll never admit that out loud.) “What are you – ”

“You’ve seen into his head,” Jaskier interrupts, “and you did say _startlingly empty_ , so maybe he hasn’t been thinking about it. But I have. There’s something you’ve missed, dear heart.”

Yennefer’s expression flits into shock, and then anger, and finally settles into something like cynical acceptance. “Fine,” she mutters, leaning a little closer.

Such direct eye contact makes Jaskier’s skin prickle. Or maybe that’s the magic; either way, he ignores the foreboding sensation and holds her gaze.

He thinks of Eskel, soft smiles and even softer kisses shared in the dead of night; of Lambert, raucous laughter underpinned by the solid weight of an arm over his shoulder. And of Geralt, of course, years of travelling, of shared meals and beds, adventures into the unknown. But also, very specifically, a night spent with Geralt in the wilds, several months after Rinde.

_“You’re a naturally stoic man, Geralt, but even this is a bit much for you.” Jaskier stares at Geralt over their small campfire, watching the way he sharpens his swords, methodical and precise as always. But something is off; has been, now, for nearly a week._

_Geralt doesn’t look up. “Hm.”_

_Jaskier huffs and sets his lute aside, circling the campfire to plant himself entirely too close to Geralt’s side. The Witcher will stop, he knows. He’d cut Jaskier once in this kind of standoff, and he’d felt guilty for months._

_True to Jaskier’s expectations, Geralt stops sharpening his sword and puts it to the side. But he still doesn’t speak. Instead, he stares deeply into the fire, and that is a flag just by itself. His eyes are too sensitive for that kind of prolonged exposure to firelight, even with his pupils narrowed to fine slits; he’ll be unable to see anything when he looks back into the darkness._

_“Geralt,” Jaskier prods. “Talk to me.”_

_Geralt sighs. “I…don’t know how.”_

_Jaskier hums and reaches out to grasp his hand. “Okay.” He thinks for a moment, playing with Geralt’s fingers as he does. Geralt lets him do it. “Do you know what’s wrong?”_

_There’s an audible swallow. “I think I do.”_

_“Can you tell me?”_

_Geralt goes tense all over, even his hand in Jaskier’s, and Jaskier sucks in a breath in alarm. “Geralt?”_

_“I – ” the Witcher growls, clearly frustrated, and takes his hand away. Jaskier lets him. He hasn’t seen Geralt close off like this since – well, since before his first winter at Kaer Morhen. More than a handful of years now. “I’m…afraid.”_

_“Afraid,” Jaskier repeats. “Of what?”_

_“That you’ll go.”_

_Jaskier snorts; he can’t help it. He’s been at Geralt’s side consistently for a decade –_ more _, actually – and despite everything Geralt has thrown at him, including his actual fists, he’s never once considered leaving. Not permanently, at least. “My love,” he murmurs, reaching out and grabbing Geralt’s hand again, this time with both of his. “You haven’t gotten rid of me yet, you’re not about to get rid of me now.”_

_Geralt sucks in a shaky breath. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s…irrational.”_

_“That’s okay.” Jaskier doesn’t bother rehashing the ‘emotions are inherently irrational’ conversation; they’ve had it enough times Geralt has likely had it with himself already. “I promise nothing you could tell me would send me away, Geralt. So can you tell me what it is?”_

_Another audible swallow, but Geralt nods._

_“I’m – ” a pause where the Witcher clearly struggles with his words; Jaskier lets it be, squeezing Geralt’s hand, “ – I think I love her, too. Yennefer.”_

Jaskier can see the moment that the memory filters through to Yennefer, standing in front of him with a slightly hazy look in her eyes as she delves into his thoughts. She falters and steps back as if she’s been bumped; the haze clears and her eyes are wide, and that look from before is back.

It _is_ insecurity. Jaskier tamps down on his immediate instinct to soothe.

He likes Yennefer. It’s yet to be determined exactly how she feels about him. And, truly, she could turn him into nothing more than a scorch mark in less time than he could speak his own name; for once in his life, he thinks choosing caution might serve him better than recklessness.

“Geralt’s heart is well-hidden and bruised, but I think there’s room enough for both of us and more, dear heart.”

Yennefer’s lips part, as if she might say something, but quick as a flash they’re closed again and she’s turning away. Jaskier watches patiently, but when she doesn’t speak, decides to lighten the mood himself.

“And, in case you didn’t catch the implication, darling; I _am_ fucking both of his brothers, so no, I’m not particularly inclined to possessiveness.”

There’s a pause, and then Yennefer snorts.

Jaskier reaches down for his drink and finishes it with a wide grin on his face.

* * *

Some indeterminate time later, after Yennefer gathers her defenses back again and several more drinks are had, Jaskier realizes he’s drunk.

He’s pretty sure, based on the flush of her cheeks, that Yennefer is there alongside him. Or close, at least. When he grins at her, she grins back; he counts that as a likely mark toward her being pissed, and figures that’s excuse enough to say stupid shit.

“So you never answered my question from earlier,” he says, as Yennefer is swaying next to him to refill his cup.

She blinks at him. “What question?”

“Have you seen Geralt lately?”

Yennefer smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know, bard,” she says, and struts back to her own chair. The effect is only slightly ruined by the way she stumbles into it and spills a bit of wine on the floor. Jaskier doesn’t mention it.

“Why yes,” he grins, and he knows it’s lecherous; knows, too, that she sees it, because she rolls her eyes. But her drink can only explain so much of the redness to her face. “I would _love_ to know, in fact.”

Yennefer snorts. “What do you think I’m going to tell you?” she asks. “A play by play of the last time we fucked?”

Jaskier chokes a little on his swallow of wine. At some point, she changed out the bottle; it’s not as good, but it’s certainly more alcoholic. “I’m not going to say _no_ ,” he coughs. “Though I was expecting something more like, hm, tips and tricks.”

“Tips and tricks?” Yennefer repeats. Jaskier nods, and she throws her head back in a laugh. “Bard, I highly doubt I know any secrets that you do not. You’ve been fucking him for _years_ ; he’s graced my bed a handful of times over a few months.”

He does have to admit she has a point, there. “Well then,” he says, swirling his wine around and giving her an intentionally sideways glance. “How about a trade, then?”

She quirks a brow. “A trade.”

Jaskier nods. “I’ll give you a trick, if you’ll give me that play-by-play.”

There’s a moment where Jaskier can see Yennefer clearly considering the offer. Then, she hums and stands to loom over him again. He tips back into his chair and sprawls, lazy and confident, just to see the way her mouth twists into something halfway between a smirk and a scowl.

“You say a trick,” she says. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

Jaskier takes a slow drink of his wine. “It means,” he drawls, “that I have a particular talent for making Witchers forget everything that isn’t my name, and I’m willing to share the secret. Assuming you’re willing to share as well, that is.”

Yennefer quirks a brow once more, clearly a challenge – she thinks Jaskier is bluffing. He is _not_ bluffing.

“I’m regularly fucking four different Witchers,” he reminds. When she gives him a confused look, he clarifies, “Lambert has an ongoing affair with a Cat.”

She stares him down for another few moments, assessing, and he finishes his drink in the meantime. Finally, she seems to find what she was looking for; she turns to grab the nearly-empty bottle of wine and refills his glass.

“So, how detailed do you want that play-by-play?” she asks.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up surprisingly not hungover, and in bed with Yennefer.

For a split moment upon opening his eyes to find her looking at him, he panics, because he could not have been _that_ drunk. Of course, she’s a beautiful woman who happens to be fucking his – actually, he doesn’t know what to call Geralt – and he wouldn’t tell her _no_ , but he can’t figure a situation where _she_ came on to _him,_ and they were _both_ sloshed. But he also doesn’t _remember_ anything happening, and if he was drunk enough to lose time, he should absolutely be hungover.

And then Yennefer laughs, and the sound of it snaps him out of his anxiety.

“What?” he asks, only barely managing to sound indignant.

She laughs some more. “You’re really an open book,” she says, which is – not an answer to his question. But her giggling is…rather horrendously contagious, and he feels himself beginning to smile. They lie there looking at one another and grinning for several long beats before Jaskier’s stomach grumbling breaks the moment.

Yennefer laughs again, a tiny bit meaner this time, but her eyes are still remarkably soft. She climbs out of the bed. “Come on,” she says. “Clearly, you need breakfast. And I have something for you.”

Jaskier sits up and rubs at his face. No hangover, but now that he’s paying attention, his mouth tastes like the inside of a horse stall. “Something for me?” he asks. “I’m quite content with our trade from last night, but I never say no to a gift.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “It’s more of a safety measure.”

Jaskier makes a questioning noise, but she turns and walks out of the bedroom. He figures he’ll only get an answer if he follows, so he does just that. When he arrives in the main living area, Yennefer already has a few plates made up with bread and cheese and fruit; he takes the one she hands him and plants himself in the same chair he occupied the night before.

She does the same. They eat in silence for a moment, but Jaskier is only capable of holding his tongue for certain amounts of time and specific circumstances. His time is up, and this isn’t a very specific circumstance.

“It’s weird that I don’t have a hangover,” he mentions. “We…got kind of smashed last night.” _More than kind of, I think._

Yennefer snorts. “You’re welcome.”

Jaskier looks up at her, confused, and she points to her own head. It takes a second – he’s not hungover, but he _did_ just wake up – but it clicks eventually. “Oh!” He grins at her, and she tucks back into her own food, but he can see she’s smiling, too. “Thank you.”

Another moment of silence stretches between them, but Yennefer is the one to break it this time.

“Actually, I….” She frowns and pauses, looking a little discomfited; Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek bloody to stop himself from interrupting. “It’s…. I should be thanking _you_ , Jaskier.”

It feels a lot like something very hot just got shoved into Jaskier’s chest. “Yen – ”

She holds up a hand, but still doesn’t look at him properly. He bites his cheek again. “No, let me – I…. Thank you. Really, for saving me – I was fucked because of those cuffs, and we both know it. But also for…everything else.”

“Everything else?” He thinks he knows what she’s getting at, here, but he wants to be sure.

“The…talking, and drinking, and….” Yennefer looks up at him now, eyes wide and little hopeless, and that hot poker in his chest twists a bit. “I haven’t really had a _friend_ since Aretuza, and even…even then.”

Jaskier has _absolutely no idea_ how to respond to that, so instead, he shoves an entire slice of bread into his mouth and stares at the floor while he chews it. Yennefer seems content to leave it there, as well, as she finishes her own food and stands to rummage through a cupboard.

When she returns, she thrusts a simple stone pendant under his nose. He jerks back a little, not expecting the sudden proximity, but takes the pendant all the same.

“What is this?” he asks.

“That safety measure,” she says. “It’s a link. Break it, and it opens a portal.”

“Break it?” Jaskier tosses the little thing around in his palm a bit. “It’s…a rock.” And it is; it’s clearly meant to be some sort of decorative, but it’s mostly just a perfectly round and smooth black rock with a hole in the top-middle.

“Yes, well,” Yennefer is rolling her eyes when Jaskier looks up at her, “most things will shatter if you throw them hard enough.”

Jaskier hums an acknowledgement. “A portal,” he adds. “To where?”

“Well, right now it’ll be to me, wherever I am,” she answers. She reaches into a little pouch she’s holding and pulls out another charm, a different shape but made of the same stone. “This is it’s counterpart. I’ll give it to Geralt next time I see him. It’s a one-use charm; if you break yours, it’ll open a portal to him. If he breaks his, it’ll open a portal to you. But whichever one remains unbroken will no longer open a portal afterward.”

The hot poker is back, this time alongside something suspiciously like a sob crawling up Jaskier’s throat. “I – _Yennefer,_ ” he murmurs, clutching the little charm tightly. “This is…. _Thank you._ ”

“It’s the least I could do, really,” she says. “After all, I’ve heard you get into all kinds of trouble.”

Jaskier laughs and it’s a little wet. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I do that.”

There’s a pause, and Yennefer puts the second charm back into the bag before taking a deep breath. “Well,” she says, and it’s clearly a change of subject even though it’s only one word. “I’d imagine you probably need to be going.”

Jaskier blinks. He…doesn’t really have anywhere to be, no, but he’s not about to insist upon staying. Maybe _Yennefer_ has somewhere to be and doesn’t want to tell him.

Really, he’s gotten much more than he could have ever hoped for already. It’s okay if she just wants him gone.

“I can portal you wherever you’d like,” Yennefer continues, and Jaskier laughs.

“No,” he says. “Thank you, but no. I rather like walking the Continent, actually.”

“Hm.” Yennefer nods. “Well. Don’t…do anything too stupid. Geralt would be devastated.”

Jaskier knows a coverup when he sees one. He lets it slide.

“I make no promises,” he says, standing and stepping right up to her. He’s got enough height on her that she has to tip her head up just a little to make eye contact. “But I’ll do my best.” And, before he can over think it, he reaches out and pulls her into a hug.

It’s a stiff, awkward thing, but after a moment of hesitation, she hugs back. Jaskier gives her shoulders a squeeze and murmurs, “Thank you again. Really. Give Geralt my love next time you see him, hm?”

Yennefer laughs against his shoulder, and she’s smiling when he pulls back. “What if you see him first?”

“Then I supposed I’ll give him yours,” Jaskier says brightly, and kisses her cheek.

Her startled giggle echoes in his head for a long while after he leaves the little cottage. He spends the walk to the next town composing a brand-new song about a purple-eyed mage with a heart of gold. It may never see a debut, but he’ll sing it to her when it’s finished. And maybe Geralt.

**Author's Note:**

> so,,, as you can see i changed some things about yennefer and her behavior in the bottled appetites ep. this was done entirely because of kate, so you can thank her, because i.....wouldn't have even thought to change it, but it works so much better!!! also,,, this is my canon divergence fic and i get to pick the character traits so yes, yennefer is Softe here and no i will not apologize
> 
> i will be posting the coen fic, like, immediately after this one is up! because it's been finished since before the last fic, actually,,, but the plot demanded to be written so i had to hold on to it so i could post everything in the right order. after this there is....at least seven more fics planned. no, that's not a typo. SEVEN (7) fics.


End file.
